


matching eyes are pretty cool

by CaffeinatedCopyeditor



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Casteism | Hemophobia (Homestuck), Earth C (Homestuck), Feb Edit: Fixed the spacing and made some minor changes, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Canon, Swearing, ansgt, discussions of trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:56:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28894023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaffeinatedCopyeditor/pseuds/CaffeinatedCopyeditor
Summary: But then he looks up. Not at you, but at the mirror, and you see the issue pretty fucking quickly.His eyes are red.(February Edit: Fixed the spacing and made some minor changes.)
Relationships: Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas
Comments: 9
Kudos: 114





	matching eyes are pretty cool

**Author's Note:**

> Just a heads up, that this fic contains discussion canon trauma (including issues with self hatred, Karkat assuming he would be dead by now, and mentions of Dave's childhood). Heed the tags and stay safe!
> 
> Edit: Blarg I though I fixed the spacing/punctuation before. It should actually be more readable now, and I made some wording changes because I felt a certain line was too close to something I had read elsewhere. So, uh, spot the difference I guess. Enjoy! - 28/02

When you wake up, Karkat isn’t there.  


This isn’t that unusual, honestly. Fuck knows the guy has a sleep schedule somehow worse than yours. Like if someone took yours, and watered it down so that it was both weaker and three times the volume. It’s bad, is the point. So you flip your shades on to your face, have a moment of silence for the wake-up cuddles that could have been, and haul your non-puppet ass out of bed.  


Oh. There he is. Your heart (blood-pusher? Heh.) still stutters when you see him, just relieved to know that he’s alive. Which, of course he is, but that panic doesn’t ever really go away and Rose can keep her cries of co-dependency locked up in her brain jail, thanks. It’s weird, though, because he’s kind of just sitting on the floor. Curled up over himself in front of the wardrobe mirror. Like Karkat’s reached ~that~ part of one of his romance novels, and he doesn’t want anyone else to see what he’s reading. He's all hunched up and in, and you don’t like it one bit.  


‘Hey’ you say, and he startles, and you startle.  


Pretty much every interaction instigation begins with one or both of you jumping the fuck out of your skin, so that doesn’t actually mean anything. You’re both jumpy as shit, and usually you share a little giggle or a smile over it, like you’re both still flirting teenagers and not grown ass men with a grown ass hive and grown ass noise-related trauma.  


‘Dave.’ Karkat breathes, uncurling just slightly.  


His volume is lower than you thought it could go. Still pretty fucking loud, but definitely below happykat levels. Huh. You sit down next to him. He leans into you a little and, oh, that’s nice. But then he looks up. Not at you, but at the mirror, and you see the issue pretty fucking quickly.  


His eyes are red. Shit. That hits you somewhere deep and personal and for a moment you reach up to check your own shades are in place, even though you’re cursing how stupid that is only seconds later. Karkat’s seen your eyes. This is about his. They are brighter than your own, almost glowing against their lemony backdrop. Candy red. Kind of pretty, in that spooky alien way that you specifically love. But you know that Karkat really doesn’t give a shit if they are pretty. He gives a shit because they are shouting his blood colour for the whole post-game world to hear.  


‘No one’s gonna mind,’ you say as softly as you can. ‘Like, fuck, it doesn’t make much of a difference if they do, but they won’t.’  


Karkat shakes his head, but his eyes remain locked on the same spot in the mirror. It’s kind of comical. Or it would be, but his frown is getting frownier every second he spends glaring at himself. Eventually he snaps his face away, and buries it deep in your shoulder. You have to shift position a little, and it’s not super comfy, but it’s still nice. He’s nice. Fuzzy little head and sweet smell and cute little horns. You are very gay for him. You should probably focus, though.  


‘I knew it would happen eventually. Kanaya’s colour came through almost a year ago,’ he mumbles into your pyjama top. ‘But it still feels gross.’  


‘Gross?’ You prompt, settling into familiar talking-time territory. For all of his secrets (and you know he has a few) Karkat is way more emotionally honest than you. Your pretty sure he finds freedom in it, projecting his heart onto the world, and forcing see him as he is.  


‘Mmm,’ he grumbles, the vibration of it rumbling through his body. When he speaks again, his voice is actually quiet, so you know for sure that its serious. ‘I didn’t actually think I’d live long enough for this to be a fucking problem.’  


Ouch. More than ouch. You don’t have the words to express the ache his own have inspired, so you pull him into your arms and squeeze tighter than you should. Hugging a human this tight would be uncomfortable, but Karkat’s thick, tough skin yields easily and he seems to welcome your comfort. Its selfish, but you’re comforting yourself more than him. He’s so warm. A furnace in every way. Raging, and boiling, hot breath against your shoulder. You can’t imagine him cold and limp. Well, you can, but fuck that. You don’t want that. You know Karkat needs to hear it so you tell him.  


‘I’m glad you aren’t dead,’ you say, and it should be obvious, but he seems to relax from hearing it and that hurts even more. So you keep talking. ‘Like, seriously. If you were dead I would be so sad dude. I would be like a sad machine, invented with the express purpose of pumping out sad. People would show up like, hey can I have some sad, and it would be no fucking problem because I would have an excess of that shit. I’d be like, sure here you go, and then they’d drown in their own tears because I’d be pumping out so much sad. I would-’  


‘Dave, shut your sewage-pumping load-gaper of a face. I get it,’ he interrupts, rough laughter threatening to burst from beneath his irritation.  


Karkat relaxes against you, and you just sit there for a while, rocking slightly. Nice. You bring a hand up to smooth through his curls, fingers twisting around short, wiry strands. He makes a satisfied little noise, and you grin. Double nice. Your heart is still thudding a bit too hard, and you can tell Karkat’s not quite done yet, but there’s a pleasant pause on this shit-show of a drama and it feels pretty good tbh.  


‘I don’t know if I can go out like this,’ he says eventually. ‘People are going to look. And I know those nook-suckers don’t really give much of shit about the whole hemo-fuckassery, but they still grew up with it and if I find it a little gross, they are going to find it a little gross. And then Kanaya will be overly defensive, as if she didn’t grow up with the exact same societal-ideals as the rest of us clown-sniffers. And the humans will want to see, because you assholes always want to see, and, and…it’ll suck.’  


Karkat whines the last bit, and it tugs something deep within you. You know, you fucking know, exactly what he’s talking about. Well, not exactly. Being raised to hate yourself, and being raised to hate what you are, are ever so subtly different. Especially when the latter involves being literally taught that your existence is a fucking crime. Fuck Alternia. So you don’t exactly know what it’s like living with those kind of expectations, but you know expectations, and you know hostile environments, and you know that sometimes looking different makes people treat you different. Your super cool shades serve a purpose, after all.  


As you rock him, you consider that. Karkat could totally rock some rad specs. Maybe in a fun shape. Half of your friend group walks around with sunglasses at this point, anyway, so it might not even draw much attention. But something about the idea gnaws at you. Shades were the solution proposed by your bro. By him. They were necessary. But, shit, even you can admit that they made you feel kind of bad when you learnt why you needed them. The thought of making Karkat hide something about himself out of fear, or out of some misplaced idea that any part of him is wrong? That’s gross.  


‘I’ll show them mine if you show them yours,’ you say instead, casually. Like it’s a joke. Like it doesn’t make your chest burn with panic.  


Karkat notices, of course, sensitive fucker. He sits up at looks right at you with those candy-coloured irises. Sweet home Alabama, that’s freaky. They really do make him look different. Those old swirls of tired, dull grey are gone completely. A shitty voice in your head tries to taunt you with something or other about how this change is super bad, and will change everything and blah blah blah. Yeah brain, you get it, change is awful, etc. You’ve got other stuff to deal with right now though.  


‘Dave, don’t be an idiot. You hate being seen without your shades. If you think I’m going to put you through that bullshit then–’  


‘Its fine,’ you lie, and slip the offending eye-coverings from your face with as little hesitation as you can manage. ‘You aren’t putting me through anything. My decision, dude.’  


Red eyes meet red eyes, but his quickly move to study the rest of your face, to try and figure out what game you are playing. You let him. You’re pretty sure this is the right call, all of a sudden. What do you really have to hide? Rose doesn’t bother concealing her violet peepers, and most of the trolls have a Crayola level assortment of sight-globes at this point. You show emotion more readily, now. You have an actual family, now. Obviously, your shades are rad as all fresh fun, but you don’t have to wear them constantly anymore.  


‘It’ll be okay,’ you tell him, and you mean it. ‘Let’s go show all of those bulgebeasts or whatever how next level our soulmate shit is. Matching eyes? That’s got to be a trope or something.’  


Karkat snickers, and whatever he was looking for in your face, he finds it. He gets up and, aw, you’re cold now. But he looks in the mirror and he doesn’t frown so maybe it’s a little bit worth it.  


‘Pull yourself together, Strider,’ he says, matter-of-fact, as though there aren’t tear tracks on his face. ‘We’ve got a double-lunch-date with the Maryams, and if we’re showing up like the carnival freakshows we are, then we better at least be dressed well.’  


‘Yes sir major general sir,’ you say lazily, but stay on the floor until you manage to elicit a scowl from him. There he is. His thick eyebrows knit over a stony, but loving, expression. Your chest stutters a bit at the sight with a good kind of ache, and you feel a little melty. Is it going to be like this forever? Licking each other’s wounds whilst being heart-wrenchingly in love for eternity? Fuck, you hope so.  


You hope so.


End file.
